A/N I just don't even want to talk about it. I'm not giving up on my hundred page goal, though. I need some smaller goals along the way, so my next one is to get another chapter up before I go see Dark Knight on Friday. WOOHOO!

Also, I'm aware that this chapter's choppy in spots, but the beta's unavailable, and it's been way, way too long since the last update.

Disclaimer See Chapter 1.

Chapter 10

Well-behaved women seldom make history.
-Laura Thatcher Ulrich

Dark Knight's Detractors Dying in Droves
This morning, events in Gotham took a terrifying new turn when Commissioner Loeb was found shot in his home. Jessica Garcia, the housekeeper, found the body when she heard a noise in the ground floor study and went to investigate.
High sources in the GCPD have revealed that the Commissioner's murder may be related to that of journalist Georgia Stern earlier this month, and to that of G.J. Osmond, cartoonist for the Gotham Globe. All three victims were outspoken opponents of Batman. No comment on this has been released from those sections of the police department affiliated with the masked crusader.

"AKA Chief James Gordon," Sarah said flatly, tossing the paper on the desk. She looked angry and Gordon sighed inwardly. Sarah had become increasingly outspoken about her dislike of the Bat's methods and Gordon's dependence on him.

"What do you want me to say, Sarah?"

"I don't know, James, but you're going to have to say something. The press is waiting for a 'comment' from 'sections of the police department affiliated with the masked crusader.'" She left, shutting the door to his office with unnecessary force.

He knew that her anger stemmed from worry for him, but he would have appreciated her support right now. She was right about the press—and he would have to figure out what to tell the mayor, whom he was meeting in less than an hour.

He hadn't slept since receiving O'Hara's call, and at the moment he was feeling every one of his forty-nine years. Rubbing his eyes, he put his glasses back on and once again pulled the crime scene photos toward him.

The pictures showed Loeb slumped behind his desk in his home office. There was a cloak of stiff brown feathers draped around his shoulders, and a plastic yellow beak was secured to his head with an elastic band. Taped to the end of the beak was the latest riddle:

I am a merry creature,
In pleasant time of year,
As in but certain seasons,
I sing that you can hear:
And yet I'm made a by-word,
A very perfect mock;
Compared to foolish persons,
And silliest of all folk.

The answer, the forensic team had told him (and his own quick Google search had confirmed) was a cuckoo bird, hence the beak and the feathers. The sound that had attracted the housekeeper was a small speaker hooked to a chip with a sound bite, probably cannibalized from a cheap cuckoo clock and wired to endlessly repeat the fake bird call.

The house alarm had been disabled and one of the study windows broken from the outside—clearly the point of entry, although the killer hadn't left any other helpful forensic evidence such fingerprints, footprints, or DNA samples. The gun was the same one used in the Georgia Stern murder.

What bothered Gordon the most was the fact that the killer had again told them who the next victim would be and they had completely overlooked it. Instead of recognizing the obvious—the killer had murdered Loeb's granddaughter before moving on to Loeb himself—they had run all over town chasing the anonymous, and they now knew innocuous, cane. But what was obvious now hadn't looked obvious at the time, and Gordon was afraid the same thing would happen again. He was sure the Riddler had given them the name of the next victim, and with each police failure, his own sense of guilt grew greater. They knew the killer's M.O., so why couldn't he have saved Loeb?

That the was the question he was certain the mayor was going to ask as, forty-five minutes later, he sat in City Hall, waiting for his appointment. Precisely on time, the door to the inner office swung open, and the mayor, accompanied by his top PR man, stepped out. "Chief Gordon, thank you so much for coming," he said with unexpected warmth, shaking hands and ushering Gordon into the office. Alone, Gordon was relieved to see. He had expected to have the mayor's people breathing down his neck for the duration.

The mayor sat down behind the desk and leaned forward in a confidential manner. "Where are we on the investigation?"

Gordon related the facts as succinctly as he could, aware that while that mayor was attempting to pay attention, there was something else on his mind. "And finally, sir, I'd like to say that despite my personal differences with Commissioner Loeb, I deeply regret and feel personally responsible for his death. If we'd interpreted the evidence correctly—"

The mayor waved his hand dismissively, cutting Gordon off. "Contrary to what you are obviously expecting, I am not here to berate you for the death of Commissioner Loeb. Tragic though it is, I know that the police are already doing everything in their power to apprehend this madman. The matter I have to discuss with you now is related, but in my private, not my public capacity."

Gordon got a sinking feeling in his gut.

"The facts will undoubtedly surface in the course of the investigation, so I'd rather say it to you up front. Commissioner Loeb and … my wife …"

"Were having an affair?" Gordon finished wearily.

"Had an affair," the mayor corrected stiffly. "It ended two months ago, and Lila and I have been in counseling. Obviously, since Loeb was murdered by our serial killer, the … his connection to my wife can have no bearing on the case, and there will be no need to make anything public."

Peachy, Gordon thought sourly. One more complication to foul the case up. "We'll do our best to protect everyone's privacy, of course."

The mayor frowned. "I need more than your best. I don't have to tell you the adverse affect this will have on my reelection campaign next year if it reaches the media. Need I remind you that I have always been a strong supporter of you and Batman?"

That was true, although Gordon suspected the mayor's motives had a lot more to do with voting blocks than personal convictions. "I have always appreciated your support, sir."

"Good." Apparently satisfied, the mayor leaned back in his chair. "Now for a more pleasant topic. Let's talk about how quickly we can move you into Loeb's office."

"What!" Gordon exploded.

"I'm appointing you acting Commissioner, for the time being at least."

"No. No way," Gordon protested, shaking his head. "That's a politician's job. I'm a cop."

"Be reasonable, Gordon. Who else am I going to put in there?"

Gordon opened his mouth to supply a name, any name, but his mind went blank.

The mayor nodded knowingly. "You see? Clearly, you're the only man remotely capable of leading the force during this dark time." He stood, glancing at his watch. "Unfortunately, we'll have to iron out the details later, we're making a press release on the front steps in two minutes."

"We?" Gordon asked weakly.

"Of course. The jackals are hungry, and I need my new Commissioner to help fend them off." He clapped a friendly hand on Gordon's shoulder and urged him toward the door.

A painful half hour later, during which he succeeded in telling the press almost nothing, Gordon retreated into the safety of his precinct office. But instead of the breather he'd been hoping for, he found a grim faced O'Hara waiting for him.

"What's happened?" Gordon asked.

"Well, sir, it's … about cuckoos."

"Cuckoos?"

"What they stand for. We call someone a cuckoo if we think they're crazy, right? One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and all that."

"Yeah, I saw the movie." Gordon leaned against the edge of his desk, bracing himself.

"But they didn't always mean that. See, cuckoo birds lay eggs in other birds' nests and let them raise the young as their own, so it used to be that a cuckoo was another name for adulterer."

"You know about the mayor's wife," Gordon supplied, relieved that no new disaster had fallen on his head.

But O'Hara looked blank. "What?"

"The mayor just told me his wife and Loeb had an affair, wants us to keep it out of the press … but that wasn't what you were going to tell me," he finished in resignation. "Go on."

"When the M.E. undressed the body, she found women's wedding rings in his pockets."

Gordon nodded understandingly. "What do you want to bet one of them belongs to Mrs. Mayor?"

"It's possible, sir, we haven't identified them all yet. But there's one you need to see."

Gordon accepted the gold band O'Hara held out and looked at it curiously. It was a very simple circlet, with no ornamentation or identifying marks on the outside. Tilting it so the light reflected on the inside, he spotted an inscription and squinted to read the tiny words.

Always, James and Barbara

Rick sat again with his new lunch group on Tuesday. Everything went well until Amanda appeared at his elbow. He'd deliberately sat with his back to Hal's table (where she'd become a resident) so he wouldn't have to avoid her inviting glances, but clearly that had been a strategical error. Never turn your back on the enemy.

"Hey, Rick," she breathed.

"Hey," he muttered, aware that everyone else at the table was staring.

"What's up?"

He shrugged. "Not much."

She rolled her eyes. "I know! January is the slowest month ever. At least Valentine's Day is coming up so we have something to look forward to." And then, as the though it has just occurred to her she asked brightly, "Have you asked anyone to the dance yet?"

"Uh … I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, it's still three weeks away," Rick stammered, suddenly panicked.

"Three weeks isn't very long, but I guess you still don't know very many people. But don't worry. At Bailey, the girls ask the guys just as much as the guys ask the girls."

"Oh wow, I didn't realize it was so late!" Rick stared at his watch in genuine panic. "See you later!" he said to the table in general, and ran, slowing only when he skidded to a stop beside his desk in math.

"Richard, you're here early." Ms. Simpkins glanced at the clock which showed a full fifteen minutes to class time.

"Uh yeah, I was just going to … uh … go over last night's homework."

"Really?" Ms. Simpkins asked, then shook her head. "Come over here, I want to talk to you."

He advanced reluctantly. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No. It's the Bailey administration that has made the error, I'm afraid." For a moment, he thought she looked almost cheerful, but then she continued sternly, "When Mr. Wayne explained that you had a tutor in math, they assumed it was because you were struggling, not because you were advanced. I had a little chat with the vice principal last night, and showed him your puzzle. He agreed that you do not need Mathematical Elementals. However, I expressed my personal opinion, which I have no doubt will be backed by Dr. Peaceable, that even if we were to place you in Trigonometry with the seniors, the material would not be challenging. Therefore, I am going to offer you a choice. You can either request a transfer into a higher math, or you can continue to attend this class, but pursue a course of independent study agreed upon by myself and your tutor."

Rick hesitated. I wonder what class Barbara's in? Then he jerked himself back to reality and answered, "Independent study sounds great. You want Alex's email or something?"

"Please. And Richard, I am sorry about the confusion surrounding your first week."

"It's ok," he said easily, ripping a sheet out of his notebook and scribbling Alex's address.

"Thank you, Richard. And now, I have a favor to ask. I've noticed that you seem to be making friends with Carmen Leo."

"Sort of. She's kind of shy."

"I know. She's also failing this class. I've tried everything I can think of to get the concepts through to her, but nothing seems to work. Then I thought perhaps a peer tutor—sometimes a student can explain what a teacher can't. But she's so shy, I don't think she said a single word to the girl I assigned to work with her. However, she seems to like you, so I wondered if you'd try. It will count toward your class work, of course."

"I'll try," he agreed, privately wondering how he could succeed where a teacher had failed.

His doubt increased when he and Carmen pulled their desks off to the side, and she slumped into hers with her head down, her hair draping both sides of her face. Trying to explain the math was no good if she wouldn't even look at him. He wondered if she was embarrassed about needing help or whether she just had problems talking to anyone about anything.

He summoned a friendly smile, winced as his bruised cheek shifted, and remembered the smile his faces had earned the day before. Maybe they just needed to talk about something else before they got down to work. He scooted his chair a little closer. "Go ahead, just ask. You're the only person in school who hasn't."

He waited a long moment and had almost decided he would have to have the conversation by himself, when she said so softly he had to lean forward to catch it, "Ask what?"

"What happened to my face, of course. And before you ask, no, Bruce doesn't beat me, and, no, this wasn't a warning from my bookie to pay up or else."

Carmen slowly reached up and tucked half of her hair behind her ear. She had a pale, rather puffy face, and there were deep violet shadows under her eyes. "Do you really have a bookie?"

"No." He winked. "I have seven, one for every day of the week."

Carmen giggled at the lame joke and the hair slipped back over her face. She pushed it away. "So how did you hurt your face?"

"Finally. I thought you'd never ask." Rick rolled his eyes in exaggerated relief. "So I was walking downtown on Friday when this guy busts out of a bank waving a gun." He explained how he had both stopped the bank robber and saved a baby carriage from being flattened by a semi, inflating his own heroism until Carmen had to hold back a giggle with her hand.

"You made that up," she accused when he finished.

Rick tried to look offended and held up two fingers. "Scout's honor."

"I bet you're not really a boy scout, either."

He hung his head in pretend shame. "Busted."

She really laughed this time, and pulled all of her hair over her shoulder so that it would stop cascading across her face.

Go me, Rick applauded himself, and pulled the worksheet forward. "So … what exactly about these problems don't you understand?" Personally, Rick couldn't see how anyone could possibly not understand. But it had always been like that for him with numbers—they just made sense, in the same way he suspected flowers made sense to Alfred.

"I just … I just don't understand why when you multiply fractions they get smaller. Multiplying things is supposed to make them bigger!"

"That's because they're fractions. Just parts of things, you know?"

"But when you get a bunch of parts of things, shouldn't they add up to be more?" A tear fell down her cheek. "I'm just so stupid."

"No, no, you're not stupid! I'm just not explaining it right." Rick frantically scrambled for an idea, anything to keep her from crying. "Apples."

"Apples?" she asked, bewildered.

"Yeah, in my lunch. I didn't get to finish my lunch today." He pulled the small container out of his bag and popped off the lid. "Sometimes it helps if you think of the multiplication sign as being like the word 'of.'" His very first tutor, the one Bruce had fired for being incompetent, had taught him that. "Now think of these apple slices as ones."

She looked confused. "Ok."

"Now ask me for three of them."

Carmen hesitated.

"Go on, ask me!"

"Can I please have three of your apple slices?"

"Sure." He passed her three slices. "Because three times one is three, right? That's how multiplication with whole numbers works."

She nodded slowly.

"All right, multiplication with fractions actually works the same way. Ask me for half of this apple slice."

"Can I have half of your apple slice?"

"You forgot the magic word."

Carmen rolled her eyes. "Please, can I have half of your apple slice?"

"Sure." He bit off half the slice and showed it to her. "See, that's one half of one apple slice. It's smaller than a whole slice."

"Oh," she said slowly. "I … think I get it. Can you do that again?"

"Ok, say you asked for one fourth of this one half slice." Rick bit off all but the tip of the remaining apple. "See how tiny that is?" he asked, too enthusiastically, as a bit of apple flew from his mouth and landed on her paper. He swallowed hastily. "Sorry."

Carmen brushed it away and started to laugh. "I never saw anyone eat a math problem before."

"Seriously? What, have you been hiding under a rock or something?"

They only finished five problems by the end of the period, but she did the last one by herself. "Thanks," she said shyly, gathering up her things.

"No problem," Rick answered cheerfully, feeling pleased with the world in general. He shoved his notebook into his bag and suddenly remembered he had Life Skills next, where Amanda was almost definitely going to ask him to the Valentine's dance. For a moment, his blanked in panic, and then he shouted, "Hey, Carmen!" and ran after her, catching her just outside in the hall. "Hey, would you … um …" He felt suddenly awkward, but remembered his danger and persevered, "You want to go with me to the Valentine's dance? I mean, just as friends."

Carmen's face turned bright red, and she bent her head, hiding in her hair.

"No pressure or anything, I just thought it would be fun." About a thousand times more fun than explaining to Amanda why I don't want to go with her. "Please?" he added, trying not to sound desperate.

"Ok," she whispered.

"You will? Hey, that's great." Rick grinned in relief. "Ok, I'll see you in class tomorrow!" He took off down the hall and made it to Life Skills before either of his neighbors.

He hadn't covered his bases too soon. The moment Amanda was seated, she leaned over and said, "Hey Rick, you know the dance?"

"Yeah," he returned enthusiastically. "I totally took your advice."

"You … did?"

"You were right, three weeks isn't that long. So I asked someone, and she said yes!"

"Oh." Amanda looked shocked, then dropped back into her seat, not even bothering to ask who it was.

Rick went back to Wayne Tower that afternoon for his first official session with the think tank. They met not in the underground vault but in an airy, sunny room near the top of the tower. The security measures to get in, however, were no less stringent.

Fox came up with him in order to introduce him to the team. There were three of them, four with Alex, and Rick supposed that he himself now made five.

Dr. Zachariah Morgan, the unofficial head of the team by virtue of seniority, was a retired professor from Harvard and an old friend of Fox's, coaxed him out of his Hawaiian seclusion to join the tank two years ago.

Nathan Flugle had no doctorate. He'd been hired straight out of undergrad by NASA. Quickly bored by rocket science and a relatively low salary, he had been easily lured by Fox into the Wayne Enterprises fold. He was grossly fat and rarely moved from the oversized, overstuffed chair he'd positioned next to a window, where he balanced a clipboard on his mounded belly to doodle endless rows of daisies, and occasionally amused himself by bouncing his latest stroke of genius in a crumpled ball off the back of Dr. Morgan's head.

The third member of the team was Dr. Monica Ray. Her wispy blond hair and timid smile gave her an air of diffidence that immediately disappeared when she began to talk numbers. She was the one in charge of supervising Richard's initiation into the project, and after Fox left the two of them settled at her desk.

"All right," she began briskly, "I'm going to talk you through our current knot and see if you have any bright ideas about new approaches." She pointed to a spot on a page dense with equations and launched into an explanation of which he understood the first five words.

After thirty seconds of frowning intently in concentration, Rick threw up a hand to stall her monologue. "I'm sorry," he said frankly, "but I don't have any idea what you just said."

She regarded him intently through the gold frames of her glasses and then smiled. "Alex said you were honest. That's good. It means I don't have to waste a lot of time convincing that you don't know as much as you think you know." She rifled through the papers on her desk and pulled one out of a stack. "Let's start here, instead."

-break-

After school, Barbara lay curled on her side on her bed, staring out the window at the gray day. She felt lethargic and tired, but she did not want to go to sleep. If she slept she would dream again, and she would see him falling, always falling.

This is ridiculous, she told herself yet again, but she could not shake off the depression that had clung to her ever since she and Trevor had witnessed the rooftop chase and its disastrous ending. Before she had seen him with her own eyes, she had doubted Robin's existence, and had it not been for Trevor's long ago interview with Demetrios Pappas, she would have written him off entirely as a creation of the press. He never did anything spectacular and was only ever mentioned in conjunction with Batman. He was the Bat's little shadow and cohort, and Barbara had to admit that while she had been jealous of him, she also despised him just a little. He was such a … sidekick.

But now that she had actually seen him, she realized how deeply she believed that his existence justified her own. He was the one, after all, who had inspired Trevor and herself to try to do something, not to wait until they were adults to help keep vigil against the darkness in Gotham.

"Barbara!" her father's call interrupted her dismal reflections.

She found him waiting at the foot of the stairs, wearing a stern expression that he usually reserved for suspects. "Dad, what's wrong?"

"Will you come in here, please?" She followed him into the home office he almost never used and sat down in the chair he pointed at.

"Daddy, what's going on?"

"Barbara, how long ago did you lose your mother's wedding ring?"

She couldn't keep the surprise and dismay off her face. "How … how did you find out?"

"Just answer my question, please."

"I … about three months ago, and I was going to tell you, I swear, but then it turned up and I didn't want to worry you, and I felt so guilty for not being more careful …" She trailed off, looking sad.

"You have the ring?" Gordon demanded in disbelief.

"Of course." Barbara reached beneath the collar of her sweater and pulled out a fine but strong chain. A worn gold band dangled from the end of it. "I got a better chain after the old one broke in gym class. But see, it's safe. And I take it off for gym, now. That's where I lost it."

"How long was it gone?"

"A month," she confessed. "I kept trying to tell you and then putting it off and hoping for a miracle. And I got one. Mr. Harris found it when he was sweeping up the gym one night. I'd asked him to keep an eye out for me."

"I see," Gordon muttered. "Could I see that, please?"

"Sure." She unhooked the chain and handed it over before asking, "How did you find out?"

Gordon tilted the ring so that he could read the inscription on the inside. "The coroner found a replica of this ring in Commissioner Loeb's pocket this morning."

Barbara's face went white. "How is that possible?"

"Someone must have found it and copied it during that month it was missing. I'm going to have to take this in for processing." He tucked the ring into his pocket.

"But why leave it on the Commissioner's body?"

"Because …" Gordon swallowed hard and leaned forward to take his daughter's hands. "Each of these crime scenes has been set up like a puzzle. The killer plants clues for us to solve, like a game. Some of those clues point to the next person he's going to kill."

She stared at him in shock. "But that doesn't even make sense. I'm not an enemy of Batman."

"I know, I know," Gordon agreed, trying to keep his voice steady. "There were other rings found in his pockets. It's probably one of the other women. But just in case, I want you to get out of Gotham for a little while."

Barbara straightened in her chair. "No. No way."

"Sweetie, it's just until—"

"Until somebody else dies? But that could be months! Maybe he'll never kill again. Besides, where would I go? We don't have any relatives outside the city. What about school?"

What about school? Gordon thought grimly. He'd wanted Barbara out of Bailey since the printer had been discovered. So far, no one outside the department knew about the connection to Bailey, and as far as they could tell, it was the only slipup the killer had made. He didn't want to start publicizing it. "Barbara, I know you don't want to let this put your life on hold. But this guy—he's serious and he's good. He's left clues about all his victims and we still haven't prevented their deaths."

"But none of the others had a warning. Dad, I'll be careful. I won't go places by myself. Besides, I'm not the target!"

"No. I've already contacted an old colleague of mine in Chicago. She and her husband …"

"I'm not going," Barbara said flatly.

"Yes, you are. This isn't an option."

Barbara crossed her arms stubbornly. "You can't make me. I'm eighteen. I'll move out if I have to."

Gordon's jaw dropped. "Where would you go?" he spluttered.

She shrugged. "Trevor's."

"No!" he thundered. "Out of the question. Barbara—"

"No," she echoed him. "I'm not going to Chicago. It's up to you whether I live here or at Trevor's, but I'm staying in Gotham."

"So on top of getting saddled with acting Commissioner, my daughter absolutely refuses to go into any kind of protective custody, and she threatened to move to her boyfriend's if I forced her," Gordon seethed, storming back and forth. "I can't believe she's so stubborn! This is her life we're talking about!" He didn't know why he was saying all of this, and he really didn't know why the Bat was standing there listening to it, but he kept going. He had to say it to someone. "And my wife's wedding ring is found in the pocket of a man identified by the killer as an adulterer? So what, she's supposed to have had an affair with him?" Abruptly switching back to his daughter he concluded, "And I can't even tell Barbara all the reasons why she needs to be extra careful at Bailey. God knows I wish she'd never won that scholarship." Finished, he sat down on the edge of an ice encrusted air vent and held his head in his hands.

"She'll be guarded at school."

Gordon looked up quickly, but Batman was gone. It didn't matter. He wasn't sure whether it was the venting or the promise, but Gordon felt lighter as he headed back inside.

Again, she came out of nowhere. Batman was running across a roof, heading for the Batmobile, when Catwoman flew across his path, not ten feet ahead. He immediately gave chase, and they careened across the slippery rooftops. She managed to stay just ahead of him until they dead-ended against a taller building and had to go up. Batman caught her in a story and a half, but she twisted sharply away and fell back to the lower roof. He followed and lunged as soon as he landed, but she darted out of the way.

Instead of running back the way they had come, she ran a few feet away and stopped, watching him. He dove, and again she eluded his grasp and circled around. Wary, now, he joined her in circling, and they paced together, around and back.

She surprised him again, by speaking. "I did you a favor the other night. You could let me go and call us even." Her voice was low and husky, obviously disguised.

He pounced a third time and was sidestepped.

"We've really developed a routine. I run, you chase me. It's getting a little boring, don't you think?" She paced a wide circle around him, forcing him to continually turn to face her. "I was thinking that perhaps we could come to an arrangement. Whatever your preferences are, I don't like running marathons across the roofs. It's high risk and low return. If I fall, I don't want it to be because I'm running away from you. Again."

He flung a batarang, and she had to throw herself to the side to avoid it. This time, his lunge was successful, and his hand closed around her wrist. He twisted her arm in a move that should have immobilized her, and instead found his legs collapsing under him as she used his knees as a springboard to flip over and out of the lock.

"Play nice or you might get hurt," she taunted, as he rolled to his feet and they resumed circling. "You know, I really can't figure out why you're interested in me. I wouldn't say I was your type. Don't you usually go after the really bad guys? Crime lords, serial killers, megalomaniacs trying to take over the world? All I do is … borrow things from people who won't really miss them. I can't help thinking you must have an ulterior motive."

He tried a false feint that she almost bought, but checked herself in the last split second. They danced around each other as she gasped and exclaimed, "That's it! You're trying to ask me out! The relentless pursuit, the attempts at capture—it's a prehistoric mating ritual! Who knew bat instincts went back so far?"

Batman stood suddenly still and stared at her, beginning to suspect there was more than one twist in her mind.

"I admit I have a thing for the strong, silent type, but I just don't—"

He flung a capsule, and smoke billowed up around them both as Batman made one final dive. His hands closed around thin air, and by the time the smoke cleared he was alone on the roof, with only the echo of laughter.

Rick watched unobtrusively from the parking lot as Barbara and Trevor walked to the unmarked car waiting for them at the curb. A plainclothes detective opened the door for them, and a moment later they were speeding away from Bailey. His first day of official Barbara watching was over. While he'd been far from displeased with the assignment—aside from being worried about her as a potential target—the day had proved frustrating. Because he shared only one class with her, he could only actually see her in the hallways, and he although he tried to alter his own route to intersect with her most likely path between classes, he didn't always catch a glimpse of her in the hallways, which made him worry, even though the chances the Riddler would strike in the middle of the school day were minimal.

So it was with a sense of relief that he mentally turned her over to the custody of the police and headed for the basement to catch up on some exploring and surveillance. David Stern's dead end nook was dark when Rick got there, so he pulled out a tiny flashlight and entered. The masks on the walls proved to be rubber costume shop replicas of actual tribal masks, all except the one in the center, which seemed to be made of an actual goat skull and suspiciously human hair. The candles on the desks were a jumble. Cheap tapers and votives mingled with candles in glass jars with pictures of saints pasted on the front. But as Rick sorted through the clutter on the second desk, he found something he hadn't been able to see from a distance—a small snapshot of Georgia Stern and her father, half covered in wax drippings.

A broad beam of light suddenly shot through the gloom, and Rick spun, half blinded, to see a dark figure lunging toward him.

"Get out!" David Stern screamed, swinging his heavy flashlight.

Rick ducked and darted around him. "Whoa, dude, I'm sorry. I didn't mean …"

"GET OUT!" David Stern whirled and swung the flashlight again, connected with the cement wall. A shattering sound plunged them into darkness.

Rick paused to let his eyes adjust, and felt the other boy brush past him, swinging wildly, heard him slam into the wall. "GET OUT!"

"I'm going!" Rick scrambled for the entrance and ran down the passageway. Rounding a corner, he skidded to a stop, just in time to avoid running into Mr. Harris.

"What's going on?" the janitor demanded, pointing down the passageway where David was still screaming.

"I was just … you know, exploring, and …"

Mr. Harris nodded understandingly. "And David found you in his space."

Rick shrugged, feeling guilty. "Yeah."

"He's been so upset, ever since his mother and his grandfather … well, I let him do his thing down here. It doesn't hurt anyone," the older man explained, frowning. "You should leave him alone. That boy's got troubles."

"Yeah. I will. I'm sorry, I just … didn't know."

The janitor nodded. "Go home."

Rick obeyed.

To Be Continued